Languages and Messages

The view from my terrace.  Do I ever have to say goodbye?

It's funny how a language comes back in an instant.  At the end of June, I hopped on a Turkish Airlines flight for Greece, and in that course of life, I found my barely used Turkish coming back as I heard the stewardess talking to each other and passengers.  On that flight, from NYC to Instanbul, I was in the middle seat between two dudes taller than me.  They were both the most polite and kind passengers I've encountered in . . . well, forever.  One insisted on helping me schlep my tote bag to the overhead compartment (my bag of medications, yes . . . and that's embarrassing to have that many prescription drugs for two months).  The other made sure I was left a flight bag and water when I dozed off.  In essence, it was a good combination.  I read, slept, and watched some blah movies.  We all did.  

As the flight carried on for nine hours, I responded to the stewardess in Turkish after the first encounter (in English) was an abrasive front.  As these things go, she took an involuntarily step back, and her eyes grew wide.  Our encounters were remarkably more mellow after that.  Yet, as I drank my visne, I chuckled to myself on the simplicity of basic words and the barriers of language.  Of course, after having not used my Turkish in nearly two years, my mind awakened from a slumber--as we say--and I realized the feel of an old friend enveloping you in an unexpected encounter.  

Graffiti in the city holding the world's record for it. I find this one fitting, as I see it nearly daily on my walk from Omnia Station to class.

Life in Athens has been pleasant to the point of forgetting where I'm from and when asked when I leave, I cringe inside.  I'm here until the end of August, and I'd stay longer if the opportunity arises.  My freelance gigs are still pretty dry from the COVID-19 belt-tightening, but there's hope, as we say.  Though I arrived on a Wednesday and Thursday I walked from my place in Petralona across Fillipou Hill to Socrates's prison to the Parthenon and Acropolis and through Plaka and then Montraski.  The old and new Agora's met me as I realized I did far more than I had planned.  As I did that, my terrible Greek came to use . . . mostly ill played.  Yet, my jeg-lagged body was more at peace than it had been in years.  At night I looked up language classes in Athens, and I found the gem I'm at.  I found myself at level A2 a couple of weeks later, which still shocks me. I'd like to be at a B1 level before I end.  Yet, as my Greek manifests itself, it's comforting and shocking to understand a transition when people ask me things (sometimes I'm quick enough) and to read words as I go.  A month in, I find myself reading the Greek words instead of the English on signs and markers.  In the grocery store, I don't have to translate words most days.  After a week of looking (they aren't in the cold section), I found the eggs--and I know the cherry cider I love and the Grecian brand of GF bread that is remarkably good.  There's a Greek brand of chocolate that serves the soul, and cacao almond milk with my coffee is not the same as American almond creamer.  Yet, it's so much better.  

I've learned to start thinking in Greek as much as I can, and as such, the heat dome of Zeus is baking and boiling us.  As we say, εχει πολυ ζεστη.  Literally, that means it has a lot of heat.  Really, it means: it's scorching.  But, as you say it, it takes on the "it's so fucking hot we are all going to die.  Ya-ya, stay inside.  Look, the cockroaches are coming out of the sewers looking for shelter!" That's what 40+ degree days will give you (for the American group, that's 100-105 F we've been having).  

These are the realities along the way.  Though, two weeks ago, I was in Rhodes for a few days.  While there, my hotel had a cleaning lady who barely spoke Greek, her English didn't go far, but her first language is French.  Upon that, I found myself sliding into my old French--that's comical as I learned it in high school in Kentucky and then took a year or so in college--and the irony of speaking French while in Greece did not escape me.      

As the days feel slow and perfect, nine am is a struggle for no real reason at all, and I settle into rhythms and balances of life; I long for the simplicity and pure sense of peace I've found here.  Granted, there have been hard days, terrible things, and creepy-ass men (there's a story for another day).  Yet, for now, I'm taking my Greek notes and a bilingual reader on Cleopatra to the beach.  It's too hot for much else.  I'll let the taxi take me there and home, as the bus is too crowded and the lack of proper mask-wearing alarms me.  Yet, ironically, on the actual metro, mask-wearing is remarkably correct and good.      

You can find me in my hat, on a beach bed, with a notebook riddled with Greek language markers and a cider.  

τα λεμε.